


Magnetic Storm Aside

by withlightning



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-01
Updated: 2011-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-14 07:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withlightning/pseuds/withlightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur's been waiting for the northern lights forever, Eames has been waiting for Arthur to address some things forever and Arthur might be, finally, willing to take the jump into the unknown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magnetic Storm Aside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cas](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Cas).



> I was given a picture of Aurora Borealis, accompanying three words; intimacy, awe, still. This is my belated Christmas present for the ever-amazing [Riotguns](http://riotguns.livejournal.com/).

Arthur likes quiet. He likes quiet and darkness. He has always thought of himself as the child of darkness; quiet and dark are his friends. They are those kinds of friends who'll never abandon him, who'll follow him to the end of the world as he knows it. They will be there for him whenever he is in the need of a friend; will never betray him; will never leave him. He hides his friends well – he has learned to hide them well, has learned to keep them inside and only let them out when it feels safe enough.

 

And Arthur, Arthur is all for safety and being sure. He doesn't believe in chance, doesn't believe in luck. He believes in coming prepared, believes in probabilities, in calculations, in narrow-minded dedication for the purpose. He believes in guns and explosives, believes in early testaments and never saying goodbye because it might be the last time. Arthur believes in himself and quiet and darkness.

 

As Arthur stands in the dark and quiet, he has come prepared. It's not dark in the original sense of darkness – it's dark enough, but the crisp, white, untouched snow is glowing and illuminating the trees circling the view; the light coat of snow sparkling silvery on the branches. It feels like the air is electrified with cold and it's sending shivery rushes of anticipation along his veins. His fingers tingle despite the thick gloves and his toes are being gnawed on by the freeze. He feels alive in the quiet, illuminated dark.

 

The quiet should be defeating, instead for Arthur it's the equivalent of a tumbler of great, single-malt whisky burning down his throat or a dash of heroin numbing him in the best ways, making him soar higher and higher or the last seconds before coming, whole body taut and ready to give in, the pleasure roaring in his head, pounding in his heart, the amazing feeling of losing control and the only word running through his head is, _please, please, please_. The quiet should be defeating, but to Arthur it's the best kind of drug.

 

Arthur closes his eyes and inhales the stinging, fresh air. It's peaceful. He exhales slowly, feeling the warm swirls of his breath rising higher and higher along the skin of his face; upper lip, then nose, then eyelashes, then eyebrows; then evaporating into the darkness. The middle part of the lake is open, black water standing still, unmoving, reflecting ice-like the moon and brighter stars above. It looks to Arthur as if he could walk on the water, skate along the surface and he imagines himself just taking the step, feet gliding on the slick ice, air biting into his cheeks and he can't help the small smile of contentment rising on his lips.

 

There's scrunching of the snow behind him; precise movement, sure steps, getting closer and then stopping altogether and a shoulder brushes his, parka shuffling against another. One glove-protected finger prods at his arm and Arthur turns his gaze next to him. A steaming mug of coffee is being offered to him, almost-white vapor blazing wildly and he lifts his eyes in gratitude, nods, and accepts the mug gratefully. Eames smiles at him gently, pleased, and says nothing.

 

Arthur has the sudden urge to tackle Eames and roll around in the pristine, blindingly white snow with him and kiss him senseless – and it's a revelation to Arthur. He's never really been one for impulses, especially impulses involving other people. Arthur always over-thinks things, calculates them, twists them and in the end, he either accepts them or he discards them. There's just something in Eames that makes him feel out of control at times. Something that makes him feel young and reckless and more importantly, makes him feel like he has the _right_ to be young and reckless. He stands still, lifting the mug under his chin and the contrast of the hot contents and the stinging cold air is refreshing. Arthur feels goose bumps running on his shoulders, on his back, on his thighs and the back of his legs and takes a deep breath, enjoys.

 

Turning his head, he looks at Eames from the corner of his eye. Eames looks comfortable, looks like he fits, like he's at home here, in the middle of nowhere – only barren trees and miles and miles of foot deep snow in every direction keeping him company. Eames looks like he's content and stable and so very calm. Eames looks like he's happy in a way Arthur has never seen before.

 

"I'm glad you came," Eames says, quietly, eyes fixed somewhere on the other side of the lake.

 

Arthur ducks his head and hides the smile. He's fond of Eames. Not only is he fond of Eames, he also respects Eames. And respect is something Arthur doesn't give away easily – neither is trust, and he trusts Eames, too, implicitly. Despite what people may say about Eames, despite what he's heard, Eames has never given him any reason to doubt him, has never given any reason to not trust him. So Arthur does, he does trust Eames, does believe in Eames and he might even believe in _them_ , given time. Arthur learned to live on his own, years back. He thinks he might be able to learn to live with Eames, now. He says, "Me, too."

 

A ghost of a smile makes its way on Eames lips, the little, almost unnoticeable twitch of the corners of his lips – it's there, fleetingly, and Arthur feels more warmed by it than he really should. Eames has many different smiles: flirty smile, calculative smile, self-deprecative smile, sad smile, exhausted smile, surprised smile, mock-smile, victorious smile – and then an awful lot more smiles that Arthur's only beginning to see, beginning to recognize, and then some smiles that are only meant for him, he suspects; smiles that only he is fortunate enough to receive. The fact that Eames adores him isn't anything new – it's not as if he hasn't seen it; all right, yes, he kind of missed it, but others – Cobb and Ariadne and Yusuf in his own way – kept hinting that maybe Eames' infatuation with him wasn't all that temporary, and later, when he really saw what they all meant, Arthur learned to see the difference between the way Eames was with others compared to him.

 

Eames flirts. He jokes. He seems untouchable. He keeps his distance – and that's yet another thing; Arthur has always kept his distance with everyone, romantic interest or not, but with Eames, with Eames keeping distance is almost impossible -- with Eames it _is_ impossible – and the most disturbing part, to Arthur, is that he really doesn't mind all that much. He doesn't mind that he isn't bothered by his and Eames' unspoken distance; isn't bothered that there really isn't all that much distance. They've never really addressed it before, though. They've flirted, they've fought, they've made up with their own way of not mentioning the fight again – often it's Arthur who makes the move to reconcile, not Eames, because Eames knows Arthur needs his time to cool down and that's just what Eames does, he waits; he waits for Arthur to wind down, waits for Arthur to be ready to acknowledge the ever-growing _thing_ between them, waits for Arthur to make the first real move – Arthur knows Eames is doing all this for them, doing it to show Arthur that he knows Arthur and is letting Arthur be who he is. Eames is letting Arthur know he accepts Arthur the way he is, with his love for quiet and dark and never addressing things that should be addressed.

 

Arthur thinks maybe some things should be addressed, thinks maybe some things are worth being addressed. Arthur thinks maybe the time has come for some things to be addressed.

 

Arthur takes a deep breath of the cool air, followed by a mouthful of heavenly hot coffee. He exhales, swallows and says, "Well, I did say I've never seen the northern lights." Eames hums under his breath, a low rumble, pleased, again and Arthur turns halfway to face him. "Although I didn't suspect you'd actually take me to see them." The statement is packed with unanswered questions and they both know it.

 

Eames cups his hands, brings them to his face and blows in them, vapor evaporating between his flexing, gloved fingers. When he lowers his hands, Arthur sees yet another smile. It's a new smile. A happy, quite shy smile.

 

Arthur wants to reach out and touch the high points of Eames cheeks and sweep the pads of his coffee cup-warmed fingers over the small dimples, he wants to run his thumb along Eames' lower lip and feel the light stubble against his palm. Arthur grips the mug harder, fingers prickling with the pressure and warmth inside his gloves.

 

“When the opportunity arises,” Eames says, marvelling, “there really isn’t any other choice but to relish it.”

 

Arthur watches Eames, blatantly, and nods slowly. “I suppose,” he says and can’t really think how to continue – he doesn’t know what to say because it seems that, among other things, Eames has the talent of rendering Arthur speechless. So, he just bites his lip and keeps staring at Eames.

 

There are flecks of frost clinging to Eames’ eyelashes and eyebrows and Arthur suspects there must have been a whirlwind somewhere between the cabin and where he’s standing and Eames must have been caught in it on his way over. It isn’t _that_ cold, even if it is a bit over Arthur’s own comfort zone. Then again, people have been telling him to broaden his horizons – and it’s rather funny; he doesn't see himself as being nearly as restricted as others perceive him to be, for they wouldn’t be saying things like that otherwise. What he is certain of is the fact that he can’t trust himself as much as he’d like. No matter how careful he tends to be, no matter how decisive and narrow-minded, checking and double-checking and checking again to get all the facts straight, something manages to slip from his grasp and that makes him untrustworthy to himself. It might be so that some people are right about him, after all. He is quite content with the decision of joining Eames, though. He’s rather _happy_ with it.

 

“Shouldn’t be too long, now,” Eames says as his eyes flick over the sky, from one invisible point to another and Arthur wonders what Eames is measuring. All Arthur can see are stars, hundreds, thousands, millions and billions of stars, twinkling and shining and comforting; all he can see is physics, is space and immeasurable continuum of unknown; all he can see is the probability of life and existence akin to this; all he can see is that the human race isn’t all that special in the big scheme of things. Arthur wonders whether he and Eames are seeing the same things.

 

Eames stands still, relaxed, breathing deeply, with enjoyment, Arthur suspects. Eames’ parka is something horrible, but it’s well-used and obviously loved and made for cold winter days like these, it looks warm and comfortable. It’s really quiet and serene and Arthur can see why Eames likes his cabin, why he likes north, likes the peace and the space and the stars above. Arthur can see it because he likes the nature and isolation and the feeling of being small, being insignificant, too.

 

And Arthur finds himself wanting again. He wants to step closer to Eames, wants to step next to Eames, wants to step into the unknown, into the unfamiliar, into the unsafe; wants to step _forward_. Arthur wants to take the chance, wants to try it out, wants to let go; wants to be big and significant to Eames. He wants to—

 

“Look,” Eames says, voice filled with awe, filled with something that makes Arthur’s throat tighten and look up.

 

It starts slowly, building up, like a conductor leading an orchestra; slowly and carefully, pulsing and breathing like music, like the finest play of violin and cello, like the low beat of contrabass and the smooth sound of flutes and clarinets and oboes, all merging together for a gorgeous masterpiece. The colors twirl and spin and are _alive_ , waving from blue to green, back and between. The whole sky is on fire.

 

Arthur is breathless. “That’s—“

 

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Eames whispers.

 

Arthur can only nod. The colors pulse – bright, muted, bright again – in every shade of green and blue, from dark green to bright green to cyan to sapphire and back to green. He swallows, reaches for his pocket and says, “Are you sure we’re not—“

 

“No, we’re most definitely not dreaming.” Eames continues, seamlessly.

 

“Right.” Arthur says and stares at how the light ripples, faints and blooms in front of them. It’s unlike anything he’s ever seen. It’s bright and brilliant and breathtakingly beautiful and Arthur still wants. He wants in a way he hasn’t ever before and it’s this consuming want; want that’s making him tremble and his heart beat in his ears, the _thump-thump-thump_ turning to erratic; it’s the burst of bitter adrenaline tingling in his mouth, on his tongue and it’s the gnawing feeling in his stomach, seeping lower and lower.

 

Eames is right there, right next to him, spectrum of colors reflecting from his eyes, glowing and sparkling and Arthur takes a deep breath. The fresh air should be calming him down, instead it brings the uncertainty with it, the uncertainty of making a mistake, the uncertainty that coils around his bones and almost makes him freeze, makes him keep on wanting instead of trying. But it’s Eames, Eames who’s never treated him badly, Eames who’s never let him down, has never been anything other than a constant, reliable thing and it’s Eames, _Eames_ , and Eames is worth it. Eames is worth taking the chance, he’s worth being shot down, worth being hit and worth being _shot_. Eames is worth it all, to him. Arthur can only believe he’s right about this, that he’s right about everything.

 

Arthur grips the mug in his left hand, still hot, and pries off the glove from his right, bunching it in the pocket of his parka. The cold air hits his damp hand, chills shivering to his elbow and he takes another look at Eames before turning his gaze on the flaming sky.

 

The colors dance wildly, like a visualization of classical music and Arthur’s taking the jump, taking the leap into unknown. His hand moves, ever so slowly, like on its own volition and his fingers touch the time-thinned fabric, smooth and chilly under his touch. He slides them lower, finds Eames’ wrist and curls his hand around the bone and skin, grips the joint strongly, determined.

 

Eames freezes, head turning slowly to look at Arthur. Arthur keeps his gaze on the sky, flashes of yellow melting into the green. He’ll remember this moment forever, he’s sure. It’s one of those once in a lifetime moments and it should be valued, even if he’s wrong about him, about Eames, about them; even if he’s wrong about _this_ –

 

And then, then Eames pulls off his glove, steady and stable and shakes his wrist a bit. Arthur’s hold breaks, only for his fingers to be gripped between Eames’, palm against palm. Arthur exhales, warmth spreading from his hand up to his shoulder, to his back and chest and face, to the tips of his ears and he can’t help the small curve of his lips when the warmth hits his cheeks. Arthur squeezes Eames’ hand twice, as if asking, _alright?_ and Eames squeezes back, three times, as if saying, _finally_. Eames watches Arthur for a moment longer, yet another, new smile on his face – awed smile, intimate smile, Arthur thinks – and then looks back up to the sky.

 

It’s still quiet, quiet and cold but Arthur feels warm. He feels warm and the lights above are clearing space from the darkness and it’s the strong hand in his, it’s the cup of coffee made in the way he likes it the best in his other, it’s the tinge of something he suspects might be happiness and joy running up and down around his spine, it’s the calm and beauty around him – it’s the air of belonging, maybe, given time.

 

It’s time for Arthur to start believing in new things.

 

Arthur squeezes Eames’ hand three times as well, concluding, _finally_.

 

 

-Fin


End file.
